Better Than My Own
by LoveAlltheSherlocks
Summary: SherlockJohnniversary Prompt 2, from two-harts @ tumblr: First Kiss!


It was a total accident.

A total accident, really.

John backed away as soon as it happened, cheeks burning a fire red. He cast his eyes downward and cleared his throat, stepping around Sherlock and heading up the stairs quickly.

Sherlock blinked and saw John's closed eyes, and before he knew it, John was gone again. He turned and watched him walk up the stairs, coat still on. Sherlock slipped his own coat off and followed behind, but a little slower. He felt very funny. Not funny, obviously- Sherlock never was a comedian even when he tried, although John was known to laugh at him occasionally. Sherlock felt sick but in a good way. Like he may throw up. But he'd be happy if he did.

Well, what the hell.

He stepped into the living room to see John sitting in Sherlock's chair, suddenly engrossed in his book. John's nose, a button to his every expression, was nearly touching the binding of the book. Sherlock knew for a fact that John had no interest in _The Forensic Casebook, _that was Sherlock's, and the fact that John was _suddenly _already onto page 423 (Sherlock remembered that because he had just finished reading that page before they left for the crime scene, he left is on the couch arm that way, creasing as it was bent), was just _fascinating. _Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance (he thought so, anyway) and strode into the kitchen, grabbing the tea kettle to boil.

John stayed where he was, eyes darting up from the book occasionally. What in bloody fucking hell. He was an idiot, Sherlock's said it before, but he couldn't believe he did that. He's never even thought about it, once. Well, maybe once. Or twice. But not seriously. Never seriously, Sherlock was married to his work and all, remember? NOT HIS AREA, JOHN. His thoughts were screaming at him, and all John wanted to do was find a time machine and go back to before, five minutes ago, and stop whatever the hell that was back there.

The kettle whistled, bringing John out of his brain as Sherlock turned the stove off and brought the tea tray out. He set the tray down quietly, watching John intently. John put his (Sherlock's, yes) book down on the arm of his chair, avoiding Sherlock's eyes for a minute but eventually being pulled to them. It always worked like that, no matter how hard John tried, the eyes always brought him back. And Sherlock's eye were, well…Sherlock's. And they were John's too.

Sherlock sat in John's chair, across from him, and started pouring the tea. He got to the second cup and realized his hands were shaking slightly. He didn't understand. He felt calm, not scared. He had eaten toast just that morning, only to appease John's requests, but still. Sherlock felt…fine. Just fine, all fine. He felt nice, actually. But something did feel sub-par to him. Perhaps it was the silence. The only thing audible to him was the tea dripping, spoon clanging in the cup as he stirred his own sugar and set the cup down. That and his breathing. Which was unusually loud. He looked up at John, who leaned forward and grabbed his cup.

"Erm, thanks."

Sherlock nodded and took a sip of his. Ah, too hot, too hot, burn the tongue why don't you, stupid. He set the cup down again, squeezing his things to settle his hands.

Ten minutes passed.

John stood, having finished his tea, and picked the tray up. Sherlock's tea was barely gone, he noticed. As he rinsed out his own mug and set the tray back on the dining table, he glanced over to the taller man in his chair, hands steepled under his chin and eyes closed. John stepped back into the living room and leaned in the doorway, watching him.

Sherlock's eyes suddenly flew open and he stands, startling John. He takes a few steps forward, but keeps his distance from John.

"That was my first, you know."

John's eyebrows furrowed. "Wh-What? First what?"

Sherlock doesn't answer but tilts his head, looking at John. John sighs.

"No guessing games, Sher-" and then it dawns on him. He stops and looks down.

Sherlock speaks again, but quietly. "That was my first kiss, and You didn't even let me enjoy it." He sounds irritated, now. But only just.

John looks back up at him, laughing. "Very funny, as if you enjoy that sort of thing."

Sherlock only stared back at him. John blinked.

"You…you didn't enjoy that, no."

Sherlock huffs. "I wouldn't know!"

John shakes his head. "Sherlock, aren't you married to your work?" He laughs.

Sherlock sighs in frustration. "I've never had anything better."

John suddenly moves forward, unable to think about it. "I'm no better than your work, come on."

Sherlock leans forward slightly. "Wouldn't know, like I said. You could try again, you know."

John inhales. "It would be your second kiss."

"No, still my first. That one doesn't count."

"Why?"

"Because I wasn't ready."

"And you're ready now?"

"And I want it." Sherlock whispers. "Please?"

John can't argue with that, London's smartest man begging for just a kiss. And John wanted it too. He stretched up and touched Sherlock's face lightly. Sherlock closed his eyes and John pressed his lips against Sherlock's lightly.

They stayed like that for a moment. Sherlock, towered over John, John looking upwards. Sherlock's hand reached from John's free one and found it, lacing fingers together.

John pulled away and smiled. Sherlock beamed.

"How was that, then?"

Sherlock kissed him again, quick this time.

"Perfect."

"Me too," John squeezed his hand. "Better than my own first kiss."


End file.
